


Clearance Sacrifice

by orphan_account



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Chess, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 06:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pushed an overturned chair out of the way with his foot and revealed a cheap plastic chess set.  "Can you show me how to play like you?"</p><p>Curt raised an eyebrow.  "You're better than I am."  </p><p>"What's better even mean?"  Brian sighed in frustration. "You're more interesting.  You've got… flair."</p><p>"Flair?"  Curt snorted, sounding a bit offended.</p><p>"You know what I mean.  You didn't just <i>win</i>, you made it dramatic.  You made it amazing.   I want to be able do that.  I want to be able to make the whole room watch me play, to be hanging on every move I make."</p><p>Curt scratched his head.  "I didn't really do anything on purpose," he said.  "I just played.  That's just me."</p><p>"Then teach me to be like you," Brain told him.  "That's what I want."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clearance Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Brian was eleven when his father brought him to Cecil Levithan for the first time. They stood in the doorway of the club, watching as two boys not much older than Brian played chess for an otherwise empty room. He was struck then how utterly intent on it they both were. Their eyes looked only at the board, even when a flurry of police sirens went by, even when someone at the bus stop outside started shouting in slurring, broken syllables. For those boys, the world outside of that chess board didn't even exist, and Brian wanted more than anything to be one of them, to be able to be part of something so attentively. _Someday,_ he thought, rapt, _I'm going to be that good at something, too. Someday my whole life will be chess._ They stood there watching for a long time, his father silent and probably rather bored beside him, both of them dripping on the battered wood floor in time to the rain pelting the windows. One of the boys inched his bishop forward to take the black rook and Brian shook his head.

"What?" his father whispered.

"He's going to lose."

His father turned to glare at him. "They've barely started playing. You can't tell who's going to lose yet. Besides, he's the one taking pieces. That's how you win."

"But all he's thinking about is taking pieces," Brian retorted. "He's not thinking about endgame at all. He wants his bishop over by the queen, to fend off the knight. He's got it boxed in now, and completely cocked up any chance of –" 

He broke off when older man, who'd been standing in the shadows, unnoticed, walked quietly over to stand beside him. Brian was acutely aware that they were probably about to be chucked out, and felt a vicious pang. He desperately wanted to stay. Instead of pushing them out the door, though, the man only smiled at him. "Do you think so?" he asked quietly.

His father immediately stiffened, but Brian smiled back. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

The man made a humming sound and didn't answer. They continued watching the game, Brian beginning to relax now that they were going to be allowed to stay. After a few minutes, the man gestured toward an untouched board set up at the back of the room. "How would you have played it? Will you show me?"

Brian moved immediately toward the board, but his father put a hand on his shoulder. "Brian, I don't think–" 

The man didn't seem a bit surprised by his father's reluctance. "We'll be in plain sight, and you're quite welcome to come over there with us, if you like, Mr…"

"Stone," Brian's father grumbled. "Kenneth Stone, and this is my son, Tom."

" _Brian_ ," Brian snapped. "I go by Brian now."

His father gave him a look that Brian ignored. "Sorry," he said to the man. "He's going through a bit of a phase." 

"Nothing to worry about. Brian suits you," the man told Brian. 

"I know," Brian replied.

He laughed and offered Brian his hand. "Welcome, Brian. I'm Cecil Levithan, and I own this chess club. Now, if you please, show me how the game went in your mind." 

Brian thought for a minute before he moved the heavy pieces across the board. Cecil and his father watched in silence. 

"You've sacrificed your queen rather early," Cecil pointed out quietly.

"It doesn't matter. White will still win."

"I've been trying to teach him that you can't sacrifice pieces and win," his father explained gruffly. "He insists on doing it his own way."

"I'll _win_ ," Brian said again, scowling.

Cecil studied the board for a long moment and looked up at Brian. "I take it you're looking for a chess coach?" 

His father nodded. "This chess thing is something he seems to be rather good at. Seems a bit nancy to me, but his mother thinks it'll be nice for him."

" _This chess thing,_ " Brian muttered, outraged. They both ignored him.

"I'm sure you'd rather he be out scrumming?" Cecil asked, with an archness to his tone that made Brian's father narrow his eyes, giving his immaculate clothes a skeptical once over. 

"I would, as a matter of fact," his father barked, "but he's a clever one and his mother spoils him. So here we are."

Cecil cocked his head, watching Brian put the pieces back into place. They were heavy and wooden, far nicer than the plastic set Brian had at home, and he handled them carefully, reverently. 

"I see," Cecil said quietly. "Well, to be perfectly honest I have more students than I have time for already." He gestured at the two boys who'd finished their game and were horsing around, getting ready to go out in the wet.

"Right," Brian's father said, relieved. "Sorry to have wasted your time. Come on, Tom, let's get home."

Cecil met Brian's fiercely disappointed look and sighed. "Perhaps," he said, softly, and Brian immediately froze, hoping. "Perhaps we can reach an agreement. Brian does seem to have some skill for chess, though it's rather too early to tell how much. Will you stay for a bit? I'd like to work with him one-on-one."

His father glanced at his watch, then at Brian's excited face. "I suppose we can do that," he said. 

Brian looked at his father triumphantly.

"Tom, don't go getting your hopes up," his father warned. "He only wants to see you play a proper game."

"It will only take one game," Brian told him. "Once he sees how good I am, he'll take me on." 

That was how it started.

*

International tournaments bored Brian, for the most part. He did like being away from home, even if it was only Scotland. Mostly, he liked being among people who didn't know him as Tom Stone. He could be anybody then, and often tried on different personas like clothing on these trips. He wasn't sure yet who he wanted to be, but even at fourteen he knew that Tom Stone's staid middle class existence wasn't it.

The tournament was being held in a small conference room, and the Swiss system matches were staggered. He sat with Cecil off to the side of the spectator's seats, watching the twenty games of the round play out, sizing up the opponents he'd play later in the day. Some of them he's played before, in smaller tournaments in London and Manchester, but most of the kids were strangers. 

He was watching a skinny Japanese girl cheerfully wipe the floor with a scowling Welsh boy when his eye was caught by a sudden movement at the next board over. 

One of the boys was leaning over the table, his long, stringy blond hair hanging in his face so Brian had no idea what he looked like. What really struck Brian, however, were his moves: he was practically throwing his pieces across the board, moving far more aggressively than Brian had ever dared. Brian watched his opponent stare at the boy, stare at the board, and stare back at him, as bewildered as Brian. He tentatively moved a pawn forward, only to have it snatched away instantly by the blond boy, who gave him a wicked grin under his curtain of hair.

Brian got up and walked closer to get a better look. He stopped at the edge of the spectator's section, watching as the blond boy trounced his opponent. It wasn't because his moves were particularly good ones – they weren't – but because the other boy was younger, and so rattled by the aggression and the grin that he could barely look at the person he was playing against. It made Brian want to laugh, mostly. _I should have thought of that,_ he thought ruefully. Cecil had always stressed the importance of dignity and calm, as if they won games or even mattered at all. All at once Brian felt his entire view of chess shifting, changing. It didn't matter how reserved he was, how well he hid his anguish at losing. None of that mattered at all. What mattered was _style_.

Brian looked round and realized he wasn't the only one watching – the whole room seemed fixated on this match and on the blond boy, who, when he'd won, practically collapsed to the floor.

"Theatrics," Cecil muttered disdainfully beside Brian, making him jump. "He depends on intimidation to win, and what happens when he can't intimidate someone? There's nothing elegant in his play at all, nothing to build upon. Did you see how he gave away his rook and his bishop?" He clucked his tongue. "Sloppy, very sloppy. I'm sure he'll be eliminated long before you'd have to play him, don't you think? Brian?"

Brian didn't answer, the whole of his attention fixed on the blond boy, who, hands shoved in his pockets, was loping out of the room. "I want to play like that," he breathed.

Cecil stared at him in horror. "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped.

Brian didn't even look at him, simply followed the blond boy out of the room, pushing past the small crowd of other people who had also gathered to watch the match.

*

He found him outside alone, leaning against the cold stone of the building's facade, smoking. Now that Brian could see his face, he realized the boy was sixteen or seventeen.

"You're too young to smoke," Brian said, disapproving.

The boy stared at him without saying a word, until Brian blushed and looked away. "Can I have one?"

At first Brian thought the boy might smash his face in, but he only shook one out of the pack and handed it over, along with a book of matches. 

Brian stuck the cigarette in his mouth clumsily and cupped his hands around the match, as he'd seen other boys do, nearly burning his fingers. 

The boy burst out laughing, but it was a friendly laugh. "You are definitely too young to smoke," he said, and Brian realized he was American.

"I'm Brian, Brian Slade." He improvised on the last name. Slade sounded so much better, somehow, cooler than Stone, and if he was going to talk to this boy, he'd need all the help he could get. 

"Curt Wild," the boy said in a breath of smoke.

"Oh. Curt _Wild_? Really?"

Curt glared, and Brian immediately backtracked. "It's just – It's a nice name. It suits you perfectly." He handed the matches back and leaned back against the side of the building, mimicking Curt's posture. 

"I saw your game," Curt said unexpectedly, "this morning. You're good. You've got to be rated way above me."

"Thanks," Brian said uncomfortably. "So are you. Really good." He had no idea what Curt was rated, but he knew he'd be looking it up as soon as he could.

Curt laughed again. "No, I'm shit, really. I just like to play for the rush. I don't even have to win, just the _playing_ is enough."

"Really?"

"Yeah, don't you feel that?"

Brian frowned. "I'm pleased when I win, but it's not… I don't know. It's not something I'd call a rush."

Curt shrugged, flicking what was left of his fag into the street. He looked as if he was about to head back inside, which was the last thing Brian wanted.

"Do you want to play?"

Curt frowned. "Now?"

"I don't have another game for a couple of hours." Brian felt oddly shy about asking.

Curt considered a moment. "Okay," he said, exhaling. "Not in there, though. Too many assholes. You want to come back to my room?"

*

"You have this room all to yourself?" Brian peered at the unmade double bed and Curt's clothes strewn everywhere. It wasn't a proper hotel, just a grubby little boarding house. Still, Curt had the room entirely to himself with no supervision at all, which was amazing enough.

"Yeah," Curt said. "My Mom's got a new boyfriend, so I wanted to get away. They were offering these stipends for poor kids to come out and compete in the tournament, as long as you had a certain number of match points, which I did." He shrugged. "So here I am."

"She let you fly to another country by _yourself_?" Brian couldn't even imagine that kind of freedom. 

"Sure. I do it whenever I can. They love me, those scholarship people: the poor white trash kid from a trailer park, playing chess with _Masters_. That's the kind of shit they live for."

"You've played with Masters?" Brian asked, impressed. 

Curt shook his head. "No, but that's not really the point. That's the story they want to tell, and it doesn't really matter how much truth's in it. They like it when they can point to people who don't fit the stereotype of a chess player. Makes them look, I don't know, open-minded or something." He grinned at Brian. "So we use each other, I guess. The best part is, they're so invested in me that they don't really care how well I do, so long as I don't come in last."

Brian blinked at him, thinking about that. "So you really don't care if you win?" 

"Not the way you do."

"My coach thinks you're sloppy and undisciplined."

Curt nodded. "Yeah. I am." He didn't seem particularly concerned about it, which shocked Brian. 

He pushed an overturned chair out of the way with his foot and revealed a cheap plastic chess set. "Can you show me how to play like you?"

Curt raised an eyebrow. "You're better than I am." 

"What's better even mean?" Brian sighed in frustration. "You're more interesting. You've got… flair."

"Flair?" Curt snorted, sounding a bit offended.

"You know what I mean. You didn't just _win_ , you made it dramatic. You made it amazing. I want to be able do that. I want to be able to make the whole room watch me play, to be hanging on every move I make."

Curt scratched his head. "I didn't really do anything on purpose," he said. "I just played. That's just me."

"Then teach me to be like you," Brain told him. "That's what I want."

Curt looked skeptical, but went about helping Brian set up the pieces anyway.

*

Brian lost twice, mostly because he was too busy watching Curt's every shift and twitch to study the board. He knew Cecil and his father would both have been upset if they had seen how distracted he was, but he didn't care. Everything about Curt Wild intrigued him: the way he chewed on his already-bedraggled nails when he was thinking, the way his eyes never left Brian's face – not his hands, but his face – when he was moving his pieces, the way his tongue would flick out when he was concentrating on a move, the way his hands fisted his hair when he was frustrated and the terrifying look he got in his eyes when he was doing well.

Brian ran a hand through his own tidy locks, wondering what he'd look like with hair down to his shoulders, like Curt's was. Probably not as good as Curt looked with it, he concluded regretfully. It really did add to the whole persona, though, not that his father would be caught dead with a son with long hair. That might be something that had to wait until he was living on his own.

Finally, as Curt was setting up the pieces for the third game, Brian looked at his watch and startled. "I have to go. Cecil will be looking for me."

"You're not late for your match," Curt frowned.

"No, but we have a routine before I play, to get my head in the right place. Relaxation techniques, strategy session, that kind of thing."

Curt looked like he might say something (and it might not be very complimentary), but he just shrugged instead, and seemed ready to let Brian leave.

"You don't have any more matches today?" Brian asked.

"No," Curt told him. "I'll probably go out and get some lunch or something."

"A bit late for lunch, isn't it?

Curt laughed. "I only got up about ten minutes before my match this morning. I don't really do 'strategy sessions' or anything."

"Right." Brian suddenly felt very young. He tried to keep the disappointment off his face, but he'd never been very good at that sort of thing.

Curt cocked his head, watching him over the abandoned chess board. "Or I could go and watch your match," he said slowly. "Maybe learn a thing or two from you." He knocked his shoulder companionably against Brian's as he got up, making Brian flush and look away.

*

The match wasn't that difficult. Brian was paired with Arthur Stuart, a quiet, shy boy he'd played before, he thought, though Arthur wasn't really the sort of person people remembered. Not like Curt.

Glancing around, Brian was cheered to see him watching Brian's match intently. It did make it hard to concentrate, feeling Curt's eyes on him. Instead of dropping into the fathomless depths of focused attention that he usually played from, he found himself on the surface, his emotions blown to and fro with every move Arthur made, checking and double checking that Curt was still there, still watching. He wanted, more than anything, to play well with Curt watching.

He knew that Cecil and his father were watching, too, as he fumbled move after move. Not fatally, but if he had been against a stronger opponent there was no question that he would've lost. He did try scowling at Arthur once or twice, just to see what he'd do, how he'd react: Arthur's eyes got wide and he swallowed hard, looking back at the board and everywhere but Brian. It really was that easy, Brian thought, smiling to himself. 

As soon as the match was over, and he and Arthur had shaken hands over the board, Cecil grabbed his arm, steering him out of the room. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Brian asked.

"You know perfectly well what I mean. You nearly lost that match for no reason at all. What on earth were you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

" _That_ was rather obvious."

When Brian didn't say anything more, Cecil sighed. "You have another match in the morning, and from the look of things you'll need rather a lot of practice beforehand. These are the finals, Brian. I need your head to be in the game. Whatever's distracting you, you have to put it aside."

"I know." Brian did know, that was the thing. If he didn't play better tomorrow, he'd lose, and leave Scotland with only his points to show for the whole trip. Well, his points and Curt, who had somehow already become as important, if not more important, than anything else. Even if, Brian feared, he'd never see him again after the tournament ended – if he was lucky enough to see him the next day at all.

Cecil didn't look convinced, but his grip on Brian's arm relaxed. "I know that at your age these things can be difficult," he told Brian, "but I need you to promise me that tomorrow will be better, all right?"

Brian nodded. 

"Good. Your father's gone back to your hotel room. You should probably join him."

Brian turned away and obediently headed for the hotel. It was only when he'd turned the corner that he paused, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He'd never purposely defied Cecil or his father before. He'd thought about it a hundred times, constructed elaborate fantasies of running away and living by his wits in London, but the truth was that Brian liked a warm bed and the familiar tedium of school-chess-home-school more than he liked the idea of being some sort of homeless rebel. There were certain things he just wasn't cut out for. 

He wasn't like Curt. Not really. He could pretend all he wanted, but he would always know the truth and so, he suspected, would Curt.

Before he could overthink it, he made his decision. He circled back around the block, trying not to think about it too much. When he got back, Cecil was long gone, and he continued on the extra block to Curt's boardinghouse. He knocked on the door and waited nervously.

Curt jerked open the door irritably, checking himself when he saw Brian. "Oh," he said surprised. "I thought you were someone else."

"Who?" Brian asked, following him inside.

"Just a girl," Curt shrugged. 

" _Oh_ , right. I'll just be out of your way, then."

Curt laughed. "Not like that. She promised to bring me something."

Brian was obscurely relieved. Still. "Is she pretty?" he asked.

Curt thought about it, sitting down at the table where they'd been playing chess earlier. "I guess. Her name's Mandy. She's an American, so not really my type."

" _You're_ an American," Brian pointed out.

Curt lit a cigarette, exhaling a lungful of smoke. "Exactly."

Brian frowned, confused.

Curt pursed his lips and looked hard at Brian for a minute. "It really is not like that," he said finally. "I don't like girls. I mean, I like girls all right, and Mandy's great, I just don't want to fuck them."

Brian blinked at him once. "What?"

Curt laughed. "You heard me. Haven't you ever met a fag before, Brian?"

"Don't be stupid," Brian snapped, "I go to public school." He licked his lips. "They've just never been like you." He considered for a moment. " _Nobody_ has been like you."

Curt shrugged. "I could say the same thing about you."

Brian stared at him. "Me?"

"You're a little unusual. Most of the people here don't give me the time of day, but you practically follow me around." He leaned back in his chair, studying Brian like he was a chessboard. "Have you ever been with a guy?"

Brian immediately felt his face heat up.

Curt's chair hit the floor again with a thump. "Never at all?" he asked, smiling. "I thought you went to public school."

Brian rolled his eyes. "It's not like that."

"Why not?" Curt drawled. "I mean, you're not bad looking, and you're obviously interested." He shot Brian a grin. 

"I'm not 'obviously' interested," Brian said tartly. 

"Teach me to be like you, Curt," Curt mocked him in a high, clear falsetto.

Brian glared. "That's about _chess_ , which is a little more important than where you put your dick." 

It was Curt's turn to stare. "Is that really what you think?"

"Of course!" 

Curt cocked his head, watching Brian with an intensity that was nearly frightening. He stood up in one fluid motion, circling the table toward Brian slowly.

Brian met his eyes and swallowed hard, refusing to give ground. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn't for Curt to place one hand on the chair's arms, one on each side of Brian and lean in slowly, giving Brian plenty of time to wish he'd hurry up. Curt's hair brushed Brian's cheek when he kissed him, both of them keeping their eyes open, Brian's in surprise, Curt's in something that looked a lot like a challenge.

The knock at the door startled them both.

"It's just Mandy," Curt reminded him, loping over to open it. 

Brian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, struggling to get his breathing under control.

Mandy was tall and thin and brunette and American. She had to be a few years older than they were, and Brian wondered where Curt had met her. She certainly wasn't a chess player, and Brian felt more than a little put out that she was intruding on his time with Curt.

She seemed surprised to see someone else there, and she and Brian sized each other up silently for a moment before she turned away with a smile. 

"You've been busy," she told Curt, handing over a small bag. 

"This is Brian," Curt told her, inspecting the bag's contents. "He's going to win the tournament."

Mandy glanced back at him with renewed interest. Brian shook his head.

"He is good, though," Curt said. "Better than me."

"Darling, everyone's better than you," Mandy said, sliding an arm around Curt. "Luckily, you have other attributes that more than make up for it."

Brian waited for Curt to refute this, but he only reached into his pocket and handed Mandy a small wad of bills.

Mandy tucked it away and looked from Curt to Brian. "Am I allowed to stay, or did you two want to be alone?"

Brian definitely wanted her to go, so he was surprised when Curt shook his head.

"Brian was just leaving, anyway." Curt looked him in the eye. "Your father's probably wondering where you are."

Brian swallowed down a protest, even as he felt his heart sink. He was being dismissed like a child. Curt was chucking him out, and Brian couldn't say he didn't have some idea why. Compared to Curt, he _was_ a child. Compared to Curt, he never made any decision on his own, never solved any problems. Only in chess, and for the first time in a long time chess wasn't going to be enough.

"Right," he said. He stood up, cheeks burning. When he got to the door he looked back at Curt, who was too busy picking through the bag to notice. Brian let the door click shut behind him. He deserved the reminder, he supposed. He wasn't in Curt's league. He'd _known_ that, that was the thing. He'd just hoped that he could learn. He took a deep breath and held his head as high as he could as he went back to the comfortable hotel room he shared with his father.

*

Brian woke up the next morning still confused and out of sorts, barely able to follow Cecil's strategy session. He saw Cecil and his father exchange looks several times, but they'd never outright yell at him the morning of a match. Not for the first time he was glad of that. He was no stranger to lying, especially to his father, but he didn't think he had the capacity to do it well, not then. 

He sleepwalked through his bath, knowing as 9:30 passed that Curt's match was beginning. Part of Brian – most of him – wanted to go and see Curt, at least one more time, but he forced himself to sit with his father and choke down breakfast instead. There was no point in seeing him. He _knew_ that, knew that Curt probably wouldn't care much one way or the other, probably wouldn't even really notice Brian watching. Wouldn't think to look for him, the way Brian would look for Curt. 

"You don't need to be nervous," his father told him.

Brian swallowed his runny eggs and shrugged. He wasn't nervous. He knew he should've been, but for the first time since he'd been playing in tournaments he couldn't quite manage it. 

He just hoped he wasn't going to lose too badly.

*

The spectators' seats were full of buzzing voices, mostly anxious parents of kids who were still in the finals and a noise that Brian was usually able to tune out. He tried to peer at the crowd without turning his head, looking for a distinctive blond head. 

He wasn't surprised when he didn't see it. The standings posted on the door hadn't had listed his name – he'd lost, then, as he'd said he would. Brian was surprised at how angry that made him. He's played Curt himself; he _was_ sloppy, undisciplined, but he wasn't really a bad player. He just didn't care enough, and underestimated himself. If he had a proper coach, the way Brian did, that plus his aggressive play would make him better than Brian. Better than almost anyone. _If_ he had a proper coach. Brian sighed in frustration, thinking about it. 

*

Cecil's stratagem for getting him comfortable in the room before any match was to arrive early and sit at the board, blocking out any distractions and meditating on the game to come. He was supposed to be entirely focused on the game – all other considerations came later, after he'd (presumably) won. He sat down at the board idly moving the pieces through various combinations: the Italian Game, the Center Game, the Dutch Gambit. He already knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate, but that didn't really matter. For the first time in his life, he understood that there really was more than chess. That there were whole worlds out there, and Brian Slade was still a blank canvas that he'd have to fill in. He could never be Curt Wild, not really, but that didn't matter. Curt was just the beginning, the one who showed Brian the doorway in the first place.

Brian took a deep breath, watching the room begin to fill, and then he got to work.


End file.
